Strong Sad Emails
by DeathbyChiasmus
Summary: Strong Sad checks his email and answers his fans' questions. Come tune in for his wacky exploits! I mean, you gotta have wacky exploits...in your email...
1. Desktop

This is Strong Sad's computer desk. Everything about it says "Strong Sad's computer desk," from the pile of CD's by such bands as Thursday and Jimmy Eat World (the earlier albums of course), to the notebook neatly placed to the side with a pageful of notes onJean-Paul Sartre's _No Exit_, to the label right above it reading "Strong Sad's computer desk." In fact, you wouldn't even need to see the computer to know it was Strong Sad's computer desk, except then it wouldn't be a computer desk, would it? There is one of his ubiquitous posters of The Cure on the wall to the side of it, and his iPod is plugged in and charging.

Right now Strong Sad is sitting down at the computer. He scoots his chair back and turns on the monitor, and his desktop appears: it's Yuji from _Blue Gender _and his giant robot. Unlike his brother, Strong Sad's computer does not use a command-line interface: it is a Mac. "Oh," says Strong Sad, "looks like it's time to check my email." As always, he speaks slowly and in a high-pitched voice, like a fourth-grader whose entire life has consisted of the moment when he learns that his crush doesn't like him back, but stretched out into years and years.

He clicks on the icon for his email program, and up pops a login box that reads "HR Mail! c. 1997 Edgarsoft Inc." Strong Sad fills in the username and password fields—and while a series of stars masks his exact password, it is clearly seven characters long and notable for its resigned pessimism.

"I wonder if I have any email today," Strong Sad says. He presses 'enter.'

The login screen is replaced with the message "Connecting to email server…" A progress bar underneath fills with blue.

The bar fills and dissolves. Strong Sad's inbox appears in its place.

"You have no new messages," it says.

Strong Sad sighs.

"Oh, well," he says sadly. His big white head droops. "I guess nobody wanted to say anything to me." Then an idea strikes him, and he looks just a little less disappointed. "Well, as long as I've got my email open already, maybe someone will send me an email and it will go 'ding!' and tell me I have a new email in my inbox…" He stares off into space, then stares at the computer screen. "Not like I've got anything else big going…for the next half hour…"


	2. Binary

Here is Strong Sad's computer desk, right where he left it last time. The CD's have been shuffled around, so that MC Front-A-Lot's _Nerdcore Rising_ is at the top of the stack, and the notes on Sartre are gone. In their place sit a ziplock bag full of Oreo's and a rejection letter from Boredom House Publishers:

"Dear Mr. Sad, we regret to inform you that your short story is too boring to meet our present needs. That's right: your story got turned down by Boredom House Publishers for being too boring. Seriously, quit trying to be all symbolic and just write something with a freaking plot. Sincerely, Boredom House, Inc."

Strong Sad walks in, sits down, and wiggles the mouse. The computer screen comes on, and as he loads up the email program and types in his information, he sings, "Oh oh ohh, down at the email fac-to-ry!"

The email program connects to the server. A signal changes digital hands: encryption codes are authenticated. Data streams through cable lines, electrical pulses, ones and zeroes.

Well, actually just zeroes.

_You have no new messages._

Strong Sad sighs.

"Ohh," he says sadly. "No new messages for me. I guess as long as I'm here I might as well…update my Sadjournal." He pulls up a web browser (Safari) and begins typing in his latest journal entry.

_Today I checked my email, but my inbox was empty again. I was really hoping to hear back from ShakespeareFan13, from the message boards, but I guess he doesn't check his email very often, or something…_


	3. End of Ages

We join Strong Sad once again at his computer. He has just beaten _Myst V: End of Ages_, and while he had hoped that the accomplishment and subsequent ending would bring a sense of closure to the many hours he invested in the _Myst_ series, he is left with nothing more than a feeling of emptiness. The credits have rolled. The game is over. There is nothing more to do.

He stares at the opening screen for a few more moments, sighs, and chooses to "quit game." The desktop once again appears before him.

"Oh well," he says quietly. "I guess I'll…check my email." He double-clicks on the HRMail icon and enters his login information. The blue progress bar slowly fills to 100.

The inbox appears. A dialog box informs Strong Sad that he has no new messages.

"Wow," he says. "I never get any email. This is really depressing. I've got half a mind to email Strong Mad, just to hear back from him, however incoherent and ridden with typos his reply may be." He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head as if to dislodge a foreign object. "No, what am I thinking! I really am lame and pathetic. No wonder no one ever emails me."

He tries to think of something to do. He considers making some progress in the Henry James novel he's been reading lately, but somehow this seems too productive: right now he only feels like wallowing in worthlessness.

He reaches for the CD-ROM for the original _Myst_.


	4. Introducing Mack Megalo

Strong Sad stands at his computer desk and sweeps the notebook full of Sartre notesoff his keyboard. He sits down, taps the down arrow to wake up the computer, then rests his hand on the mouse as the screen comes on. As he calls up HRMail and logs in, he sings with wounded-tenor intensity: "Email in my heart tonight, so afraid to start tonight, don't let this diieeeee…"

His inbox appears on the screen, accompanied by a "bing-bong" chime. That's right: a "bing-bong" chime. For right beside the word "Inbox" in the list of his folders on the right side of the screen, there is a single boldface "**(1)**." And in his inbox, there is an email.

Strong Sad has an email.

Strong Sad stares for a moment before clicking the email open. He reads it out loud as the text of the body appears onscreen.

* * *

Dear Strong Sad

You should just try a Tip on how to be more Liked. I have the Link here

W.Mack.

Here Mack Megalo gives Tips to everyone who isnt Liked. Oh and Dont go onto the Section under the ''Unloved and Depressed'' You dont wanna go here. Believe me my Eyes are Still Bleeding after being in that Section

Sincerly Jerry Winderton FC

* * *

Much like his brother, Strong Sad pronounces misspellings and typographical errors such as "dont" or "sincerly" just as they are written, pausing for a second after each as if to emphasize it. "From FC," he finishes. "Foreign Leadership Camp? I don't remember any Jerry Winderton from Foreign Leadership Camp…

"I guess it couldn't hurt," Strong Sad decides with a shrug. He sighs as he clicks the link. "Famous last words."

Mack Megalo's site comes up, a blue navigation bar set against a garish yellow-gray background. The website's creator, one might infer from the layout, knows at least some HTML, and has probably even seen a commercial website before—but that's being generous. In the center is a "personal message from Mack Megalo," the usual blurb about "with my expert advice, you too can be more liked!" right beside a picture of the mildly successful pop psychologist himself. Mack Megalo looks like the genetic fusion of Bob Saget and Richard Simmons, especially in his smile, the wide tooth-baring grin of someone who can look for two seconds like he has his life together while someone takes a picture.

On the navigation bar, there are four tip sections: "Hated by the Bullies?" "Unloved and Depressed?" and "Leety and Extremely Stupid and Deaf?" Strong Sad scrolls to the right in order to see the fourth section, which the large font size has pushed off the screen. It is: ''Hates Tom Jackson?''

"Well, that's not me," says Strong Sad. "I bear no ill will toward the Denver Broncos linebacker of fourteen years, nor the Canadian actor and folk-singer! I'm not sure what 'leety' is…but my hearing and intelligence are just fine…" He considers clicking on the "Hated by the Bullies?" link, and the mouse cursor hovers over it. Perhaps it would even help with his constant torment at the hands of Strong Bad. But, against his better judgment, our sphere-bodied hero moves his mouse over to the "Unloved and Depressed" link and

clicks.

Strong Sad peers out from between his fingers, holds his breath and waits for the blood to flow.

But the page contains no unspeakable horrors, no eye-gougingly hideous images or words of madness—indeed, nothing but a paragraph and a few bullet points. The page reads, "If it is Cursed by Bullies. Go to 'Hated by Bullies?' Well. Simply. All you need is to Go Cooler. Then ask the Nearby Guys for Advice. and then Search for your Greatest Fan."

It's not too late to go to the hated-by-bullies section, Strong Sad thinks. But deep in his heart, he knows there's no going back. He's read the tip, and now there's only one question on his mind:

_Will it work?_

(The author would like to thank one of his reviewers for the idea for this Strong Sad Email, which the author is finally getting around to using. Stay tuned for more Strong Sad action!)


	5. Step 1

Homestar Runner's blue soles thump against the spongy, rubbery,red-brown material, one foot after the other, in a stride somewhere between a run and a series of short skipping jumps. The sun cooks the athletic field, the blue sky rippling with heat, and sweat runs down Homestar's face. He finishes his current lap around the track and starts in on a new one.

Yes, the athletic field has a track now. It's been recently renovated. Also, it has a swimming pool filled with V8 juice, because when you're writing a fanfic you can do anything you want.

Homestar finishes two more laps before coming to a halt. He bends over, torso parallel to the ground and lungs heaving. "A hundred. Whoo…and I'm done for the day. Man, I'm pawched! I need a drink."

For the record, Homestar does not actually run a hundred laps every day. He simply runs until he can't run anymore and says "a hundred" at the end. He does keep count of his laps, mostly out of principle, but typically loses count at around six.

Homestar walks to Strong Bad's house, dripping sweat all the way, and opens the door. "Strong Bad!" he calls out, walking in past the computer. "I'm coming into your house!" There is no reply, so he drops his tone to a normal speaking voice, as there's no need to shout for an absentee Strong Brother. "I'm going to borrow some of your bevewages. So if you'd rather I not, just let me know," —his voice goes just a touch higher— "and I'll gladly cease and desist."

Still no reply.

"Oh!" he says, "I guess it's fine then." He walks into the kitchen and opens the door.

There, in the refrigerator, is Strong Sad.

"Stwong Sad? What are you doing in the refrigerator?"

"It's part of a three-step process to become more liked," Strong Sad explains, inexplicably not showing the slightest signs of cold. "The first step was to go cooler, and this seemed the most expeditious way. I can only hope it produces results."

Homestar paces around, peers into the 'fridge from different angles. "How are you fitting in thewe, anyway?"

Suddenly the phone rings. "I'll get it!" Homestar says. He sprints over, raising the phone armlessly to the side of his head. "Stwong Bad's house, Homestar speaking. How may I direct your call?"

A familiar voice garbles: "IS YOUR REFRIGERATOR RUNNING?"

Step 1: Go Cooler


	6. Step 2

Bubs' concession stand: a monument to relentless cutthroat entrepreneurialism, its brick-red brick façade strikes fear into the hearts of millions. Well, not really fear. More like an internal dispute as to whether that Hollerin' Jimmy's Hobby Kit is worth the fifteen-tooty-two that the concession man is asking for it. The correct answer is no, but you'll probably end up buying it anyway.

Bubs stands behind the counter, talking into a telephone receiver with a short frayed piece of string hanging from it. His brow is furrowed in sky-blue annoyance, and his voice is like a truck over gravel. "I know that, but what Ahm asking is how did it get into the bathroom?" He turns his attention from the phone as Strong Sad walks up to the counter. "I gotta go; I got a customer. But you can bet we'll talk about this later!"

He turns to Strong Sad. "Hey there, Strong Sad! What can I get for ya?"

"Hi, Bubs," Strong Sad says. "I'm following a three-step program to become more liked, and the second step is to 'ask the nearby guys for advice.' I thought you might be a suitably estimable individual in the eyes of the community to offer me some relevant guidance."

"What'chyou talkin' about, boy?" Bubs asks, pointing an orange flippery arm-thing at him menacingly. "Them's college words! You don't wanna be talkin' college to me, boy…"

"I'm sorry, it was just a slip of the tongue," Strong Sad says, remembering the last time he made the mistake of talking college with Bubs. "I need your advice on becoming more liked."

"Well, you're in luck! Today we're having a half-for-the-price-of-one sale on free advice! Lemme let you in on mah secret!"

Bubs leans across the counter. "It's easy to be liked, Strong Sad. All you gotta do is just give the peoples what they want!"

"What if you don't have what they want?" asks Strong Sad.

"Then you get what they want and you give it to 'em! It's as simple as that." Bubs folds his arms and grins. Bubs always grins. "Now that's a secret secret, so don't you go tellin' it to nobody else, or I'll have Strong Mad beat you over the head with _How to Win Friends and Influence People_ by Dale Carnegie! Go on, there's peoples out there who want stuff!"

Away from the concession stand, Strong Sad records the new information on his checklist of Nearby Guys:

Strong Bad – no chance in the nine levels of hell

The Cheat – "meew mreh meemew riwr"

Strong Mad – unintelligible

Homsar – see above

The Poopsmith – not on speaking terms

The KoT – not popular

Bubs – "give the peoples what they want"

Homestar –

Pom Pom –

He looks at the blank by Homestar's name and puts the pen tip to his mouth. Everyone likes the Homestar Runner—after all, he is a terrific athlete—but Strong Sad now considers his subject's brainpower and wonders to what extent Homestar would actually possess any intelligent tips on popularity.

Strong Sad pauses, pen in mouth, then goes off to find Pom Pom.

* * *

When we next catch up to Strong Sad, he is standing out by the Stick, in the middle of a dialogue with Pom Pom. Pom Pom makes his characteristic effervescent sounds, and Strong Sad nods in response.

"Really?" Strong Sad asks. "That's the secret to popularity and happiness?"

Pom Pom makes a noise like an automatic back massager immersed in a bowl of jell-o.

"And the second half will just take care of itself?"

Pom Pom burbles.

"Wow. Thank you very much, Pom Pom," Strong Sad says. "When you put it that way, I'm surprised I didn't notice it before."

Pom Pom nods, makes bubbly sounds again, and begins bouncing away, as Strong Sad writes Pom Pom's words of wisdom down on his pad.

Step 2: Ask the Nearby Guys for Advice


	7. Step 3

Strong Sad sits on the couch in the basement, moleskin journal in one hand, ballpoint pen in the other, brow furrowed in concentration. The journal is opened to a page that says "Greatest Fan?" at the top. Beneath that, on the left-hand side, is a "1)," followed by a blank. Indeed, the entire rest of the page is blank.

Strong Sad taps the end of the pen against the surface of the page, then absently holds it about an inch from his face like a microphone. It is about this time that Strong Bad enters the room, with Strong Mad and the Cheat in tow.

"Well, if it isn't the Bard of Lard," says Strong Bad, "working on another poem about how everything sucks. What is it this time, o Bard of Lard? 'Reflections on My Profound Fatness?'"

"Um, nooo," says Strong Sad. "I'll have you know" –and he points the pen at his be-wrestlemasked brother– "that I am about to go searching for my greatest fan."

"Fan? A fan?" asks Strong Bad, stifling a laugh. "You'd better get a head start, then. 'Cause it's gonna take you, like, years to find your greatest fan. Maybe even a fortyear."

"You know, that's not even an insult," Strong Sad explains. "Given that everyone in the world only has one greatest fan among all the people of the world, it's going to take anyone a long time to find his or her greatest fan. In fact, if I took a longer time to find my greatest fan, it would probably be because I had a lot of fans to sort through in order to find the greatest one!"

The Cheat says something in the Cheat.

"Hey, whose side are you on, anyway?" asks Strong Bad.

The Cheat says something similar to his first remark, and a little more emphatic.

"I don't care if he's got a good point!" Strong Bad exclaims. He turns his attention to the round grey mound of brother on the sofa. "Listen, as much as I'd love to stand here and make fun of you, we need the couch. So we need you to get up off the couch, so we can move the couch to where we need it."

"Nooo," replies Strong Sad. "I was here first. What do you need the couch for, anyway?"

"We were gonna," says Strong Bad casually, putting his chin (such as it is) in his hands (such as they are). "Um. Play couchball."

"Oh? And just how do you play couchball?"

"Well, first you need a couch," Strong Bad says. "Strong Mad?"

"BWAH," says Strong Mad, sounding like he has a mouthful of laundry. He lifts the sofa up by one end, dumping Strong Sad off onto the floor. Strong Sad's body bounces onto the carpet, making a noise like a dodgeball. Strong Mad hoists the couch over his head.

"Then," says Strong Bad, "you take it out to the athletic field. So long, loser."

As the trio of troublemakers ascends the stairs with the couch, Strong Sad rolls over and brings himself up onto all fours. "That is _so_ a sport you just made up!" he calls after them, rubbing his head.

"Man," he says, his voice full of sorrow and frustration, "now I don't even have a couch to think on." He sits down on the floor, facing the TV, and tries to think of who could possibly be his greatest fan.

He has already considered the usual suspects of Free Country USA, and out of all of them, the only remotely possible fan that occurred to him was Homsar. His pen hovered uncertainly over the page as he considered whether or not to commit the idea to ink, whether Homsar's name was even worth writing down as a potentially greatest fan. He imagined searching for Homsar and asking him exactly how much of a fan he was of Strong Sad. He imagined Homsar's reply: "AaaaAAaa, a bushel and a peck."

As you already know, the list is still blank. You can do the math.

Strong Sad sighs. "Who could be my greatest fan? This is really frustrating!" He thinks and thinks, sitting on the basement floor. And then it comes to him:

Jen C., from Millbrae, CA.

Jen C., the emailer who once asked why Strong Bad is so mean to the white-faced gray-bodied guy all the time. Jen C., possibly Strong Sad's greatest fan; possibly Strong Sad's _only_ fan.

* * *

It's a long way out from Free Country to Millbrae. It's certainly a long way by car, and it's an even longer way by rollerblade. It's a longer way still by llama-pulled cart. 

But by airplane, it's really not such a long way out at all.

Strong Sad leans back in his seat. He looks off to the side and watches the clouds pass by.

He gives the reins a tug, coming to a fork in the dusty dirt road, and the llama stops in its tracks.

Strong Sad takes this time to pull out his travel atlas. "Let's see," he says. "Hmm…" His eyes trace paths across maps, and he flips through pages to find the route to his destination. "Okay, left track." He gives another tug on the reins, and the llama turns down the left path.

* * *

Finally, after much effort and many many weeks of travel, Strong Sad arrives at his destination. He pulls the llama cart up to a house, where a girl is watering flowers along the front walk. She looks up and sees the llama cart. 

"It's the guy with the big white face and the gray body!" she exclaims, putting down her watering can and running to meet him, as Strong Sad hangs his legs over the edge of the cart and puts his soolnds on the ground.

"Wow," she says, "it's really you!"

Strong Sad scratches his head. "Yeah, I guess so."

"I'm your greatest fan!" she says.

"You really are? You really are?" Strong Sad's eyes are as wide as they get. Well, as wide as they get without the aid of several heaping spoonfuls of Sanka. "I came all this way in search of my greatest fan, and I was hoping it was you!" He explains. "You see, I've been following this three-step program to be more liked, and the third step was to find my greatest fan. And I remembered that email you sent about how Strong Bad is always mean to me, and he should do something nice to me for a change…and I knew that if I had any fans at all, you must be it!"

"Wow," says Jen C. "That's really amazing. All the way out from Free Country!" And there is a long pause, and Strong Sad looks down at his soolnds.

"So, uh," he says, "what do we do now?"

Step 3: Search for your Greatest Fan


	8. Home

In the dark, there's the sound of a key in a lock, teeth probing for the fit that will turn the doorknob. The front door to the house cracks open—a beam of moonlight shining in, silhouetting a large, round-bodied figure. The figure tiptoes across the carpeted floor, very nearly stumbling over a stool by the computer table but hopping awkwardly over it on one foot. The beige carpet is almost black in the darkness. The figure reaches a door across the room, opens it, and steps inside. Outside, a llama quietly munches the lawn.

A finger reaches for the light switch in the second room, flicks it on.

Strong Sad stands in the doorway of his room.

He walks over to his computer, boots up, and checks his email.

_You have no new messages in your inbox._

Some things never change, no matter how far you travel to find your greatest fan.


End file.
